


bound to you, don't let go

by im2old4thisotp



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, BAMF Stiles, Based on a Castle episode, Derek is Not a Failwolf, Detective Derek Hale, M/M, Pining, Sterek Reversebang 2018, Writer Stiles Stilinski, but with a different ending, mentions of trafficking (no main characters involved), sterek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-31
Updated: 2018-07-31
Packaged: 2019-06-18 23:37:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15497361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/im2old4thisotp/pseuds/im2old4thisotp
Summary: Waking up next to Derek Hale has always been Stiles' dream.But maybe not quite like this.





	bound to you, don't let go

**Author's Note:**

> My second piece for the Sterek Reversebang! I pinch hit this baby in less than a week, so I hope you enjoy it!
> 
> Thank you to Viki for the awesome art that immediately inspired me, and to Castle and Beckett who are the hetero version of Derek and Stiles, as you'll see in this story. Be sure to go to [Viki's blog](http://nosetothewind94.tumblr.com/post/176492614658/this-was-my-entry-for-this-years-sterek) and leave her some love on her awesome artwork, because I tried 15 times to embed it into this fic and technology failed me every time!! UPDATE: I FIGURED IT OUT! The art is now embedded into the fic, so enjoy--but still go leave Viki some love, alright?
> 
> Thanks as always to Sabrina for her beta work, and froggydarren for not being annoyed by my constant inquiries. You're the best.
> 
> It can't be said often enough, but authors and artists LIVE for your feedback. Let me know in the comments what you thought of this story. Consider this my thanks in advance!

 

***********

 

The sheets were silky, the slide against his skin a cool contrast to the warmth pressed against his left side. He hummed softly and snuggled closer to the heat. The wall of heat was a man, solidly pressed against his side. There were far too many clothes between them for his liking, but the broad chest and the firm thighs he felt next to his own more than made up for it. He rolled onto his side and wrapped his right arm around the waist next to him, draping his leg over the warmth. He tried to pull his left arm down, but found it unable to move, his wrist held above his head in a tight grip.

_Mmm...kinky._

“Stiles.” 

The soft, male voice filtered into his consciousness. He buried his chin into the crook of the neck that was even with his own, loving the feel of the stubble that scuffed and scraped the side of his face. His mouth drifted open, laying gentle kisses on the skin beneath his lips. He loved the goosebumps that he could feel beneath his tongue as he laid a hot path up to the man’s earlobe.

_“Stiles.”_

It was uncomfortable, trying to maneuver himself with his left arm stuck above his head. He wanted to tuck it into the body next to him, rid it of clothes, drape himself over it, but he couldn’t seem to bring his arm down.

No matter.

He slid his other hand up the man’s muscular stomach and chest, the fabric from the shirt he was wearing roughing the pads of his fingertips before his hand reached the side of the man’s face. His fingers splayed out wide, his thumb resting on the man’s bottom lip, his palm feeling the bristle of the man’s stubble, his fingertips just long enough to tuck into the soft locks behind his ear.

He felt the man’s hand resting just under his body, and he was filled with a rush of pleasure as he rocked his body into it, the angle of the knuckles hitting him _just right_.

The body next to him huffed in exasperation.

_“STILES!”_

Stiles Stilinski jolted awake at the yell, flailing off the body next to him and struggling to sit upright, which he couldn’t do because of the cold metal pinch at his left wrist. The haze in his vision was slow to clear, and with confusion, he looked down to see his left wrist bound tightly within the grip of a handcuff. The other end of the cuffs, he recognized with astonishment, was clasped around the dangling left wrist of one very awake—and very annoyed—Derek Hale.

Alertness flooded into Stiles like a sudden, crashing wave, shoving aside the haze and muddiness of consciousness that seemed to be doing its best to keep a hold of him. He quickly assessed the scene in front of him, horror filling him with every new detail that came into focus.

Derek—his work colleague and most certainly _not_ his boyfriend or snuggle buddy, no matter how much Stiles wished it—was taking long, slow pulls of breath, staring straight up at the ceiling like he was boring a hole into it with just his eyes. His body was rigid, his right hand resting against his side—the hand that Stiles had most definitely been rutting against just a moment ago. _Oh god._ Derek’s left hand was dangling heavily in the other cuff, his claws extended and brushing precariously close to Stiles’ skin.

“Dude! You’re gonna slice me with those! Either cut the handcuffs apart or put your claws away!”

Derek gritted his teeth. “I’m _trying_ . I’ve _been_ trying, but I think I’ve been injected with kanima venom, because I can’t move. Plus, you were doing...that...” Derek’s head didn’t move, but his thick eyebrows were saying plenty.

Stiles’ face flushed with heat, and he spluttered. “Hey, now I was _dreaming_ . You can’t hold me accountable for my non-lucid behavior, alright? And did you say _kanima venom?_ Who the hell is injecting you with kanima venom?”

“I don’t know. I woke up just a few minutes before you started _sucking on my neck,_ so I haven’t figured it out. How did _you_ get here?”

Stiles chose to ignore the whole sucking-on-the-neck embarrassment. While yes, it was something he had wanted to do for a long time, he also preferred that his partners _not_ be paralyzed from the chin down while it happened. The question of how he had gotten here brought Stiles up short, though. Because as his mind whirred backwards in time, he realized that he had a huge, gaping hole in what he could remember.

His heart immediately started pounding, and he went to run his hands through his hair, only to have his left hand weighted down by the cuffs and the weight of Derek’s arm. He felt his breathing quicken, and his chest tighten.

Derek’s voice broke through his panic. “ _Stiles._ Calm down. We’ll figure this out. Do you have your cell phone?”

Stiles reached for his pocket where he normally kept his phone, unsurprised to find it empty. At the same time, he realized his back pocket where he normally kept his wallet was empty, too.

“No, whoever did this to us must have taken it. And my wallet. Probably yours, too.”

“Can you check to make sure? And check for the knife I keep on my ankle, too?”

Stiles’ heart continued jackhammering, this time for another reason. He put his hands on Derek’s side, just above and below his hip, rolling him to feel along his back pockets. “Sorry, dude. This isn’t exactly how I imagined feeling you up for the first time.”

Stiles noticed Derek’s ears flush red, and he cleared his throat. “Any luck?”

“No wallet or phone, just a great ass.” He gently rolled Derek onto his back again, wincing as Derek’s limp wrist pulled uncomfortably on the cuffs. He leaned down by Derek’s feet, feeling along his ankles, frustrated but unsurprised to find the knife holster empty. “Knife’s gone, too.”

Derek sighed. “Not surprised, I guess. Look...can you lay down again or something? The handcuffs are cutting into my wrist.”

As he mentioned it, Stiles again felt the tight pull of the cuff against his own arm. He adjusted himself carefully away from Derek’s side, giving as much of a respectable distance as he could between himself and the man next to him. He wouldn’t allow himself to think about the _lack_ of respectable distance he had been giving Derek for the last several minutes. He raised his arm back up above his head so that the cuffs wouldn’t scrape their already-sensitive flesh, dragging Derek’s hand with it. Amazingly, Derek’s claws didn’t nick his skin at all.

The brief glimpses around the room didn’t give Stiles much encouragement. In his books, this was the kind of place where bad things happened. They were lying on a ruddy, stained mattress (How could he have ever dreamed this was silky? His mind was a scary place.) in the center of a room that was completely devoid of anything—including a door. There was a solitary light bulb hanging just inches from the ceiling, throwing the weakest of yellowed light around the room. The far wall was a mixture of brick and wood planks, the other three walls made of solid concrete. Derek _might_ be able to work his way through both of those, but definitely not in his current state.

So they had to wait.

As he laid down, he noticed that the room did, in fact, have a door. It was just a hatch directly above them, about 15 feet up. Maybe about three by three feet, the what-looked-like-steel door had no latch that he could see. Again, Derek could probably jump up, but with no latch from the inside, Stiles wasn’t really sure what he’d be able to do without having the door already opened. That didn’t even consider Stiles, who most certainly would _not_ be able to do a vertical 15-foot high jump, thankyouverymuch. He’d been working out since joining the Force, but that wouldn’t make any difference when it came to this height.

Joining the Force. Yeah, Derek would certainly scoff at that one.

Stiles hadn’t so much “joined the Force” as he had “inserted himself into the Force by force.” Derek’s words.

Stiles was a crime writer—a pretty successful one, with five different books on the _New York Times Bestseller_ list. His crime novels catered heavily to the supernatural crowd, using his expertise growing up in Beacon Hills to his advantage. But, after flying through his first seven books at a neck-breaking pace, he was suddenly suffering through the worst case of writer’s block he’d ever had in his career. He just...couldn’t...make….words. Nothing had helped: writer’s retreats, re-reading old material, meditating (Stiles was _never_ going to be good at that one, anyway), reading positive reviews on Amazon. Nothing. It had been months, and Stiles was getting desperate. So, in a stroke of genius, he realized that he could be inspired for new material by shadowing the officers of the Beacon City Police Department (he went to Beacon City because his father said there was “no way in Hell he was shadowing the crew at the Beacon County Sheriff’s station”). He had to work with the Mayor’s office to get approval—which turned out to be surprisingly easy, considering the Mayor was Stiles’ best friend Scott McCall—but he’d been shadowing officers for almost six months now.

Well, he was _supposed_ to be shadowing officers. Plural. But in his six months with the force, he’d only managed to shadow each officer one time.  Every single officer in the Department, after doing one rotation with Stiles, either mysteriously got sick when it was their turn (Stiles tried to tell Johnston that the 3-day old creme-filled donuts were a bad idea), or injured while Stiles was on the job (who tasers themselves, really Montez?), or filed for a transfer the day after (Stiles...couldn’t really explain that one). The only two officers he hadn’t rotated with were Boyd and Reyes, but Reyes had been out on maternity leave, and Boyd looked like he would kill someone for a few more hours of sleep, so Stiles didn’t press the issue. Sad, too, because Erica seemed pretty awesome (The captain also may have mentioned that he would let Stiles and Erica partner together “over his dead body,” which seemed a little extreme, but Stiles didn’t push the issue.).

Stiles was self-aware enough to know that he was a special kind of nut. It’s why he and Scott had been exclusively a best friend’s club of two their entire time in high school. “Nerd” was heard most frequently, but “obnoxious” was thrown around a ton, too. It wasn’t a big deal to Stiles. He wore it as a badge of pride, actually. Writers were supposed to be odd recluses who only emerged from their writer’s caves every few months to stare blindly at the sun before diving back into their hole filled with Grubhub delivery containers, right? It wasn’t his fault that everyone in the Department was too lazy or dumb or incompetent to see the evidence that was practically hitting them over the head with one of those enormous, cartoon hammers. Those other officers should be grateful to Stiles, really. With his help they were able to bump up their own arrest and conviction rates, which Stiles knew would have languished in the sublevels of mediocrity without him.

It was how he made his living as a supernatural crime novelist, actually. His ability to get inside the criminals’ heads and “think like they do” actually had made his dad, the long-time Beacon County Sheriff, visibly shudder a few times when Stiles was growing up. How an underage, law-abiding citizen (son of _the Sheriff,_ no less) could think _so_ easily as a criminal mastermind made his dad a little more than fearful for his son’s future, but really all it did was showcase how much of a genius Stiles really was. He channelled all his knowledge into his writing and made a fortune on it.

Only one officer in the department had been able to handle Stiles’ quirks with any regularity—one of the city’s best (and most delicious-looking), Detective Derek Hale. Stiles had basically fallen in love with him the first time they met, and his crush only got stronger the more they worked together.

Derek had been on the BCPD for almost eight years. He was efficient and smart and scary as hell, and also the detective with more arrests and convictions than anyone else in the history of the department—even the captain at this point. He was a werewolf, which only served to make him better at catching criminals, with the heightened senses. Allowing supernaturals on the force was a relatively new development, but if anyone was a prime example of a supernatural asset, Derek was it.  After two rotations with Stiles, Derek didn’t seem surprised at all that everyone else avoided their scheduled time with Stiles like he was a resurgence of the Bubonic Plague. In Derek’s own words to Captain Montgomery—that Stiles may have overheard since he had figured out exactly where to sit in the station to be able to eavesdrop effectively—“Stiles is an absolute menace. He’s always sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong and prying into cases he has no business touching. Add to that the fact that he never stops moving or talking or generally making life a living hell for anyone that he comes in contact with.”

Stiles had _almost_ stormed into the Captain’s office so that he could defend himself, but he stopped when he heard Derek continue. “But, I also recognize that he has a weirdly effective method of helping the department. If it weren’t for his ADHD and his utter incapability to follow rules and regulations, he probably would’ve ended up in his father’s place as County Sheriff before he was 30. His crime-solving ability is kind of incredible. Don’t tell him I said that.”

Hearing Derek's praise, Stiles had burst into a blinding smile that he had carried around the rest of the day (he passed it off as happiness with the Mets’ 5-game winning streak). He knew that he and Derek together were something...well, _special_ didn’t seem strong enough. Derek saw things from an angle that Stiles usually didn’t consider, and while they bickered constantly, they actually solved some pretty incredible mysteries together, including some old cases that the Captain thought would stay cold forever.

Stiles had only _just_ overheard the Captain say to Derek, “The Mayor’s office is overjoyed with our production as of late, and Mr. Stilinski’s notoriety will bring a good reputation to the department. He’s _your_ problem. I can’t have him incapacitating the rest of the department, and since he works so well with you, I trust you to keep him from getting himself killed.” When Stiles heard that, he knew he was around for good. Because as much as Derek gruffed and grumbled, they were an amazing team together, and Derek would never risk the reputation of the department.

They’d been partners for almost 2 months now. Well, “partners” in Stiles’ mind. Derek was always quick to remind him that he was, in fact, _not_ employed by the Beacon City Police Department, he did _not,_ in fact, have an actual badge but a toy one that he purchased for himself off of Amazon, and _no he would not_ be issued a gun, _so stop asking, Stiles._

Stiles was as surprised as anyone when, 3 weeks into their partnership, Derek bought him his own Kevlar vest.

“Wear this when we meet with a suspect,” he said. “The last thing I need is for you to get shot on the job.”

“Aww, you _do_ care!”

Derek had rolled his eyes and gruffed, “The paperwork would be atrocious.”

Stiles had the vest screen printed to say _WRITER,_ lest any criminals get the wrong idea that he was _actually_ on the BCPD and try to shoot him.

Stiles wished he were wearing that vest _now,_ since their circumstances almost screamed that he was going to need it, but when Derek had called him yesterday and told him to meet him at the station, he didn’t think it was necessary, so he had left it at home.

Stiles realized, with a start, that he actually remembered parts of the previous day.

“Oh! You _called_ me!” Stiles flailed wide, hitting Derek in the chest, earning an eyebrow scrunch in return. “Oh...sorry.

“I remember leaving the station with you. I remember...we drove to meet up with that contact who was going to give us info about the trafficking.”

“Yes! At that house on the edge of the Preserve. Creepy as fuck house. And there was that woman! In the cage!”

“I remember that, too,” Derek agreed. “Unsettling. But I don’t really remember much after that.”

“I don’t, either. They must have ambushed us, dude!”

“I told you, don’t call me dude.”

Stiles sighed in exasperation. _“So_ not the battle you should be fighting right now. We don’t have our phones or wallets, so we can’t call anyone or figure out where we are on GPS. Can your wolfy senses figure out anything about where we are?”

Derek was quiet for a moment, and though his body was paralyzed, Stiles could see his concentration. “I only hear birds, so we’re probably somewhere isolated in the woods. It could be the Beacon Hills Preserve, but I can’t be sure. Our contact was at the edge of town, so it would’ve been easy to drive us elsewhere if we were both knocked out. I haven’t heard any voices since I woke up.”

“Yeah, about that: I’m easy to knock out. But how in the fuck did they knock _you_ out?”

Derek scrunched his eyebrows (adorable) and thought for a moment. “Wait. I remember a bright light and then a sharp pinch in my shoulder. I don’t remember hearing anyone, so they must have shot me with something from a longer range, a rifle or an arrow or something.”

Stiles let out a long, slow exhale. “ _Jesus._ You know what that means.”

Derek rolled his eyes to the side where they met with Stiles’ own. “Hunters.”

“Do you think it’s Monroe’s crew this time?” Stiles asked.

“Undoubtedly,” Derek confirmed. “She can’t seem to keep her nose out of anything in this area, no matter how many of her cronies we arrest.”

Stiles chuckled. “ _Cronies,_ Derek? Really? I swear, sometimes I think you’re 80 years old.” He noticed Derek’s fingers start to twitch—the venom was finally wearing off. “Oh, hey—do you need me to roll you over or anything? Are you gonna get bedsores?”

Derek rolled his eyes. “We’ve been in here a few hours, Stiles, not a few weeks. I’m not getting bedsores.”

“Just checking. But good to know the venom didn’t affect your eye roll.”

Derek smirked, his eyes darting around. “Is there a way out of here?”

Stiles gestured to the hatch above them. “Other than that hatch? I don’t think so.” Stiles lifted himself up onto his left elbow, careful not to pull on the handcuff any more than he needed to. He noticed Derek’s claws still extended. “Hey—do you think I can use your claws to saw through these cuffs? It will make moving around a lot easier, y’know, once the rest of the venom wears off."

At Derek’s agreement, Stiles sat all the way up, using his free hand to grasp Derek’s wrist. Stiles stretched their hands apart, pulling the chain between the cuffs tight, but the claws didn’t make a dent.

“Is there a technique to this?"

“They should just slice through, if they’re standard-issue cuffs.”

Stiles struggled with the angle, but every time, Derek’s claws scraped past the cool metal, leaving no marks, and making no progress.

“It’s not...working...” he grumbled. Suddenly, the dim light from the single bulb above them caught an angle on the shiny metal, and Stiles noticed something. He turned Derek’s wrist, holding it so the light could catch just so.

“ _Shit._ We’re not getting out of these.” Stiles maneuvered the cuffs to Derek’s eyeline. “ _Runes._ The damn hunters have a witch on their side.”

“ _Fuck.”_

Stiles lowered Derek’s cuffed hand so it rested on his stomach, and tried not to think of how close his own hand now was to those glorious abs. Instead, he scanned the room, squinting his eyes in the dim light.

“There aren’t any other doors. That wall over there looks pretty poorly put together, so once the venom wears off you could probably bust through it, but that’s— _Oh god.”_

“What?” Derek asked. “Stiles, what is it?”

Stiles’ eyes were trained on the corner behind them. He hadn’t seen it when he was lying down, but now it came into full, horrible focus.

“There’s a chest freezer in here that looks straight out of a _Saw_ movie.”

Stiles looked back at Derek, who was struggling to move his head. Stiles reached over to gently grasp Derek’s chin, turning his head so he could see.

“What do you think is in it?” Derek asked.

Stiles leveled Derek with a look. “Duh. There are dead, rotting corpses in there.”

“Stiles,” Derek said with an eye roll. “I’m sure there aren’t rotting corpses in there.”

“Oh, yeah? How are you so sure?”

“Because it’s a tightly sealed freezer—decomp probably hasn’t even started yet.”

Stiles glanced down to see Derek smirking at him. “Oh, _real funny_. I can’t believe it took us getting _abducted_ for you to get a sense of humor.”

Derek rolled his head back to the center, which made Stiles cheer. “Yes! You moved your head!”

“Stiles, I think if we move the freezer under the hatch, we can climb on top and I can break through the door and get us out of here.”

“Awesome,” Stiles said.

“Go check it out.”

“Umm...in case you haven’t noticed, we’re _handcuffed together_ here.” Stiles shook their bound wrists to emphasize the point.

“I _know_. Look. The freezer isn’t that far away. Just get up, stretch our arms to get over there, and check it out.”

Stiles nodded and pushed himself up to standing. It was awkward, his left arm weighted down with the cuffs and the dead weight of Derek’s arm, but he managed. He stretched toward the freezer, and with his left arm stretched as far as it would go, he could just reach the front of the freezer.

“Can you push on the freezer? Will it move?”

Stiles got his hand on a piece of it and pushed, the freezer like a solid rock below him. “Oh my god, this thing is so heavy. There’s no way I can move it by myself.”

“What’s in it?”

“It’s locked. But,” he looked closer, getting excited as he saw the combination lock, “for my second book I worked with an expert safe cracker. I can open this. But...are you sure you want me to?”

“Come on. I don’t know how long our abductors will leave us alone here. They have to know the venom is wearing off.”

Stiles looked at the distance between his cuffed hand and the freezer. “I need both of my hands to do this.”

“Well, roll me over a bit so you can get closer.”

“Are you sure?”

“ _Stiles._ Just do it already!”

“Okay, okay!” Stiles stepped back toward Derek, maneuvering around his body and positioning himself, one hand under Derek’s shoulders, the other near his hip.

“Ugh. You’re going to end up face down.”

“Stiles, just...hurry up, alright?”

Stiles regarded a couple of very suspicious stains around the spot where Derek’s face was going to end up resting. “Just...don’t think too carefully about what happened on this bed.”

If they got out of this, Stiles knew he would look back at this moment and laugh hysterically. The sheer comedy of his measly 147 pound body, trying to roll Derek’s over-200-pounds-of-dead-weight body over, then wrestling his cuffed hand out from under said dead-weight body without smacking Derek or himself in the face, or tearing the skin on either of their wrists was something out of a Cirque du Soleil show. Derek only grunted once and winced twice, so Stiles considered it a victory. At the end of it, Stiles ended up crouched in front of the combination lock, the long line of a very irritated werewolf stretched out behind him. At least Derek could turn his own head so it wasn’t face-planted into the suspicious stains on the mattress. Stiles could only imagine what it smelled like.

“Okay, this will take me a few minutes.” Stiles pressed his ear against the lock, turning it this way and that.

Stiles concentrated, listening for the tell-tale clicks that he was making progress. _One_ number down, turn slowly, _two_ numbers, click and turn...slowly...

“Stiles, someone’s coming.”

“I’m almost done. One number left.”

“No—get over here and roll me over. They’re going to open the hatch.”

Stiles reluctantly dropped the lock, maneuvering Derek onto his back again, facing the hatch. Thankfully, it was easier this time, as Derek was gaining more and more mobility back. Good timing, too, because just as they got settled next to each other, there was a loud metal-on-metal noise, and the hatch began to creak open.

Stiles felt the ripple of Derek’s beta shift next to him, a low growl reverberating around the room. Derek might be almost entirely useless without his full mobility, but at least he had his claws and fangs out. Stiles was completely defenseless.

The hatch swung outward, and in its place stood a dark-skinned, curly-haired woman, her large white eyes a stark contrast against her skin. Tamora Monroe certainly wasn’t an imposing woman—she had impersonated as a school counselor in the distant past—but her heart was complete stone. She was a disciple of the more extreme hunter regimes, having been a protege of one Gerard Argent, and having werewolves not only exposed to the public, but also accepted and placed in positions of leadership? It had made her practically a zealot for her cause: total werewolf elimination, no matter the cost. She was staring down at the two of them with complete contempt. Next to her was a man that Stiles didn’t recognize—another one of Monroe’s disposable guns-for-hire, no doubt—in a cowboy hat, a scraggly beard, and a double-barrelled shotgun pointed directly at Derek’s head.

“Hello, boys,” Monroe said.

“Well, Ms. Monroe,” Stiles scoffed. “You’re looking remarkably sadistic today.”

“Mr. Stilinski. How unsurprised I am to see you here, today, gallivanting with the abomination. I don’t know why I expected any differently, seeing how your love for the supernatural drives your entire career.”

“What can I say? I’m a gallivanter.”

“And you, detective, “ she directed to Derek. “I’m happy to say that after today our city will get a little safer, now that a known lycan is off of the force and out of dangerous contact with our great populace.”

“Hey!” Stiles objected. “Derek has done more to keep this city safe than you could hope to do in your entire _lifetime._ ”

The sound of the shotgun being cocked was enough to silence Stiles. Monroe was a live-wire, and he had no doubt that she’d claim his death was collateral damage.

“I find it interesting, Ms. Monroe,” Derek spoke up. “You frequently call out and campaign against the supernatural—and yet you have a witch in your company.” Derek raised their cuffed hands to highlight his point.

Monroe straightened her back, her eyes squinting. “His usefulness extends only to his commitment to our cause.”

Stiles muttered. “Well, that’s convenient.”

“Now,” Monroe continued. “Tell me the name of the contact you were meeting.”

Derek scoffed. “Just like that.”

“Just like that.” Monroe smiled.

Derek pushed himself up to a seated position. “No,” he said quietly.

Stiles held back a shiver. The soft voice that Derek was using was more menacing than if he were screaming, the barely-contained rage made even more terrifying behind the soft exterior.

“I figured you’d be difficult. My friend here,” Monroe nodded to the shotgun, “is filled with several rounds of wolfsbane-infused buckshot rounds. A couple of these in you, and you’ll be a puddle of black goo faster than you can say _full moon._ Difficult thing to avoid, given your... _current state.”_

Stiles blanched a bit, and sat up quickly. The thought of watching Derek die in such a gruesome way made him feel sick, but he quickly threw it off when Monroe shot him a satisfied smirk. That just pissed him off. “Sounds pleasant,” Stiles mocked, “but why don’t you just keep that shotgun for yourself and shove it up your freaking—”

Stiles was cut off by a slightly-furry hand over his mouth. He looked over to Derek, who was blinking furiously at him.

“What is it?” he muffled into Derek’s palm.

Derek slowed down his blinking, but it was still irregularly fast.

“The wolf has the right idea!” Monroe crowed. “Keep running that mouth and you’re going to get a shot for yourself, too.”

Stiles ignored Monroe, and continued to stare at Derek, realization slowly dawning.

A month into working together, Derek and Stiles had been on a long stakeout together. Stiles had actually been dreading the stakeout, because Derek was more of the “strong and silent type,” and the thought of sitting silent for multiple hours made Stiles’ skin itch. But when he had started rambling about the fascinating arrest of Dr. Hawley Harvey Crippen in the 1900s, Derek actually broke his silence and joined in the conversation. Turned out he had a particular interest in police history, and had studied the arrest, too, and the whole thing led to the two of them having full conversations in Morse Code against the dashboard of the police car.

It was the first time they had really made a connection, and Stiles had fallen deeper into his crush with Derek and had never found his way out. It was also the reminder in that moment that _Derek knew Morse Code._

Derek’s rapid blinking made perfect sense now.

_S - Q - U - A - D - C - A - R - I - N - C - O - M - I - N - G_

Stiles nodded his understanding, and Derek breathed a sigh of relief, gently easing down his hand from Stiles’ mouth.

Suddenly, a loud, wild roar erupted from behind the brick-and-wood wall on the opposite side of the room, and Stiles sprung from the mattress to his feet, the weight of Derek’s arm nearly toppling him sideways.

“Oh, good,” Monroe piped up, her voice barely heard over the terrifying howl-screams from the space beyond the wall. “Our friend is awake.”

“Wh—wh—what the hell is that?” Stiles yelled up at Monroe.

“We had a feral Alpha that we needed to transport, but he caused more than a few problems along the way.”

“You have a _feral Alpha in there?”_ Derek yelled at her.

“Not for long,” Monroe smirked. “As soon as he figures out where you are, I’m sure he’ll come in to say a proper hello.”

“You mean rip our fucking faces off!” Stiles yelled back.

A loud thump against the wall sent a flurry of dust to the floor, and both Stiles and Derek’s attention became riveted onto the brick-and-wood wall.

“Dude,” Stiles directed at Derek. “How close are you to being full strength?”

“Not close enough.”

The shiver of fear that ran through Stiles’ spine was like an ice bath. He looked up at Monroe, who had utter glee in her eyes. “Alright, you bitch. Let us up, we’ll tell you what you want!”

Monroe cocked her head in consideration. “No, I don’t think so.”

The man in the cowboy hat suddenly lifted his head and looked behind him. “Uh, boss? I think we’ve got company.”

The snide look on Monroe’s face disappeared instantly, replaced by what Stiles could see was blind rage. It was hard to give her his attention when the roars from the room next door became more insistent, the pounding and scraping against the wall getting progressively louder.

“How the hell did they find us?” she screeched. “Go and hold them off, Dewayne.”

“I can’t be shootin’ no goddamned cops, lady.”

“Just go!” she screamed at him, shoving him and his shotgun out of sight.

“Well, gentlemen, I don’t get the pleasure of seeing you bleed out black goo, but if everything goes to plan, there won’t be much left of you to worry about, anyway. I have some business to take care of, so I bid you adieu.”

She stepped out of sight and the hatch door slammed shut, the metal-on-metal clang sounding especially ominous in Stiles’ ears.

“Well, shit. What do we do now?” Stiles asked.

“I need to focus, try to heal faster. I don’t know how I’ll do against a feral Alpha, but I’m no match for him like this.”

“And me? Derek, we can’t get these cuffs off; how are you going to fight an alpha with only one hand?”

Derek sighed, his eyes fixed on the shuddering wall. The silence was especially damning, because Stiles knew. He was dead weight in a supernatural fight like this under the best of circumstances. But like this?

He wanted to panic. He wanted to yell and scream and then _run,_ but since none of those were particularly helpful options at the moment, he started using the only weapon he had: his brain. He looked wildly around the room again, his eyes locking again on the chest freezer. “Maybe there’s something in there that will help us?”

Derek followed his gaze, an eyebrow raising at the sight.

Stiles rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I know it’s a long shot, but what else do we have?” Gunshots rang out in the air above them, and Stiles flinched. “Oh god, I hope that was the good guys.”

Another loud roar was followed by a crash against the wall, and to Stiles’ horror, a shower of brick and wood fell to the floor in the middle of the wall. For a moment, it was silent, the dust slowly settling, and Stiles saw two bright red eyes appear in the space that had been created. The creature locked eyes with Stiles for just a moment before a blood-curdling roar erupted from his mouth, causing Stiles to wince.

“Stiles?” Derek said cautiously.

“Yeah?” Stiles’ voice was barely above a whisper, the sheer terror he was feeling completely choking his sound.

“You’d better finish that lock, and fast.”

They hobbled together to the freezer, Derek’s burgeoning strength overcoming the awkwardness of their wrists still connected. Derek sat with his back against the freezer, closing his eyes and taking deep breaths. Stiles didn’t know how he could concentrate with the roaring and the wall practically disintegrating, but if Derek could do it, Stiles could, too.

He pressed his ear against the lock, taking a deep breath in and out. He slowly turned the dial, focusing his hearing as much as he possibly could amidst the cacophony of sound filling the space around him.

“Come on….come on…” Stiles murmured to himself. He felt a warm hand on his shoulder, and glanced briefly at Derek, who still had his eyes closed, but gave him a gentle squeeze of reassurance.

Stiles swallowed thickly. _They weren’t going to die like this._ He turned his attention back to the lock. Just when Stiles thought that he had missed the number entirely, he heard the click that he had been searching for, and when he pulled down on the lock, it sprung open.

 _“Holy shit,”_ he breathed. “I did it!”

Stiles clambored to his feet, trying to do his best not to disturb Derek, and threw open the lid of the freezer.

“Oh fuck me.”

Derek looked up. “What is it?”

Stiles stared into the freezer, his eyes wide at the terrifying sight in front of him.  The interior of the freezer was full of chains. Thick, heavy chains intermixed with shackles of various sizes, all of them horrifyingly splattered with large droplets of red.

“Well, it isn’t dead bodies.”

Derek pushed himself up to standing, swaying a bit to lean his weight into Stiles. His eyes widened when he saw the freezer. He reached his free hand into the pile, pulling out one massive chain—each link was as big as Stiles’ fist.

“They’re using these for trafficking,” Derek observed.

“Those shackles are way too big for humans. And the runes are the same as the ones on our cuffs. Which means...they’re for werewolves.”

Derek’s lips were pressed so tightly in a fine line they were turning white.

Stiles felt sick. “They’re not trafficking humans.”

The gunshots rang out above them, the roar and noise of destruction increasing from behind, but Derek and Stiles stood silent. So much progress had been made in the inclusion of werewolves in society over the last few years. But to be faced with the obvious evidence of werewolf mistreatment was sobering. Stiles tore his eyes away from the chains to the side of the freezer, where a metal box took up the entire left side. Stiles lifted the lid and had his first rush of joy since they woke up. The box was filled with butcher knives of various sizes, all of them stained with blood like the chains. Stiles picked up one of the larger knives with his free hand, testing the grip in his palm. It wasn’t what he would normally choose for a weapon—especially since the thick trail of dried blood running down the handle was making him queasy—but at least he knew how to use these. Now the Alpha just needed to get in range.

“Well, at least I’m not helpless now.”

Derek sighed. “You’ve never been helpless, Stiles.”

Stiles loved the soft look in Derek’s eyes. That even with all the chaos around them, Derek could look that way—Stiles could easily let his imagination run wild, believe that Derek had feelings for him. But that was crazy. Derek was a werewolf, a cop, and about a thousand times out of his league.

A loud smash turned their attention to the wall behind them, and Stiles grabbed a knife for his other hand before maneuvering the two of them around, the lid for the freezer staying open behind them. Stiles thought maybe if the Alpha could get close enough they could shackle him in the manacles or something? Again, another long shot, but this entire scenario was a long shot. The hole was large enough now to see the entirety of the feral Alpha’s face, and in full-beta shift, it looked even more terrifying. The Alpha’s claws were tearing into the open space, pulling off sections of brick and wood in large chunks.

Stiles couldn’t tear his eyes away from the rapidly expanding hole between the two rooms. He gripped the weapons tightly in his hands, feeling the pulse in his palms pounding against the rough handles. Maybe the fight above would end in time for them to get out of this, but would they get out of this before the alpha finally broke through the wall? The timing was too close. Stiles was too pragmatic. He hoped he would come out of this okay, but he couldn’t envision any scenario where that would happen. At least he had some weapons, though. And these he knew how to use.

But Derek. Derek needed to come out of this. Stiles was a dumb novelist. His words were only an escape for people. But Derek literally saved lives _every single day._ Derek _needed_ to make it out of this alive. So, no matter what else happened, Stiles would do whatever he could to keep Derek safe. If that meant just getting between him and the Alpha, slowing it down even for a moment more, it was worth it. It was the only thing he could guarantee in this whole thing. He looked over at Derek, who was leaning against the freezer, his claws out, and Stiles’ heart swelled. He was in love with the gorgeous, broody, loyal, sarcastically hilarious detective, and if Stiles had to die, at least it would be protecting him. His words came out in a rush before he could stop them. “Look, before I’m eviscerated by a feral alpha werewolf, I just want to say that partnering with you has been one of the best things that’s ever happened to me in my life. And since I’m about to be ripped to shreds, I just need you to know that I’m kind of in love with you, okay?”

Stiles could feel Derek’s eyes on him, but he kept his attention on the Alpha, who was now forcing his upper half through the jagged space. Stiles turned the grip of the knife in his right hand, waiting for the perfect angle. When the Alpha had his right shoulder through the wall, the left one still pinned back, Stiles reared his arm back and let the first knife fly.

The weapon sailed through the air, end over end, until it landed squarely in the meat of the Alpha’s shoulder, sinking in all the way to the hilt. The Alpha roared in pain and pulled back from the hole.

“What the hell was _that?”_ Derek asked with a shout.

Stiles turned back to the freezer, grabbing another knife, testing the weight in his hand before turning back around to face the hole. “Scott made me go with him to an axe-throwing class so he could impress Malia.”

The Alpha clawed at the knife in his shoulder, howling in frustration when his claws slipped off the hilt, the runes making him unable to pull it from his body. In frustration, the Alpha thrust his upper body back through the hole again, screeching and clawing, the knife still protruding from his shoulder.

“Nevermind that she was better at it than he was.” Stiles let the next knife fly, and it slammed into the Alpha’s chest, just below the other knife. The roar from the alpha cut off with a wheeze as the knife must have punctured a lung.

“But all of us were surprised when _I_ was good at it. All that baseball with Dad paid off.” Stiles transferred the third knife into his hand and threw again with a grunt, this time hitting the Alpha on the other side of his chest, the impact forcing him backwards through the hole and out of sight.

There was an eerie silence for a moment or two, the gunshots from above now silent, the fierce noises from the Alpha quiet as well. Derek pushed his body off the freezer, his legs still slightly unsteady, but he moved toward the hole in the wall, tugging on the handcuff between them so Stiles had to follow.

They peered through the gap, surprised to find the Alpha writhing on the floor, black goo pooling from the wounds around the knives still sticking out from his body. His movements slowed and eventually stilled.  

“I guess the shotgun pellets weren’t the only things laced with wolfsbane.”

Stiles turned his attention to Derek, who was staring at him, his mouth agape.

“What?”

Derek swallowed thickly. “You’re in love with me?”

Stiles flushed, his free hand reaching to rub roughly along the back of his neck. “I mean, only in the most _literal_ sense, yeah.”

Derek just continued to stare, and the longer he stared, the more awkward Stiles felt. He couldn’t get a read on Derek at that moment. He’d gotten pretty good at figuring Derek out over the last several months—when he was really pissed and when he was kinda pissed and when he was only pretending to be pissed to annoy Stiles—but this look wasn’t pissed at all, it was just kind of….there. And, as Stiles was prone to do in situations where he felt awkward, he started talking. “I mean, I only admitted these feelings because, well, _I thought I was going to die,_ and so telling you how I felt seemed like the best thing to do in that moment, because if someone is going to die, then they should _know_ that they’re loved, you know? But of course _now_ I feel like a complete moron because, well, _look at you,_ with your perfect hair and your perfect body and your gruff exterior hiding the most amazing person I’ve ever met. I mean, you’re incredible at your job and one of the most hardworking people I have ever met, and you don’t let anyone dismiss you just because you’re a werew—”

Stiles’ words were completely cut off by the press of Derek’s lips against his own. He couldn’t help the muffled noise of surprise, his eyes astoundingly taking in the sight of Derek’s own closed eyes so close to his own. Derek Hale. Was kissing him. He had wanted to know for so long what those lips would feel like against his own, and now it was happening and he couldn’t even process it. He was frozen.

Derek must have sensed Stiles’ rigidity, because he pulled back. “Is...is this okay?” His voice was barely above a whisper.

Stiles saw the hesitation in Derek’s eyes, the worry laced underneath it all. He wanted to wipe all of it from Derek’s face. Their left hands were hanging between them, and Stiles linked their fingers together. He leaned closer into Derek’s space, his own voice low.

“Oh _hell yes.”_

Stiles captured Derek’s smile with his mouth, his free hand wrapping around the back of Derek’s neck and pulling him close, their bodies flush together. It wasn’t as close as Stiles wanted to be, their hands and arms trapped between them, the metal of the cuffs digging into his wrist and his stomach, but it would do for now, because Derek was kissing him back the way he had been dreaming about for months. He shivered as Derek’s free hand wrapped around his waist, spanning across his lower back and tugging him impossibly closer. Stiles angled his head slightly and teased his tongue against Derek’s lower lip—

“Quite a celebration you’ve got going on down there, you two.”

The deep timbre of Boyd’s voice broke through their haze, and they abruptly broke off their kiss and looked up at the now-open hatch, blinded for a moment by the flashlight that was pointed in their faces. In the frame was the uniformed Officer Boyd. Stiles wondered for a moment where Boyd’s partner was, when he heard her yell.

“Are they _making out?”_ Stiles heard Erica’s voice before she peered her head over Boyd’s shoulder and then squealed with joy at the sight of the two of them wrapped very firmly around each other. “Yes! I _knew it!”_

“Did you get Monroe?” Derek hollered up, not loosening his grip around Stiles.

Boyd nodded. “Yep. Plus a few of her friends.”

Derek let out a loud exhale, and Stiles ran his fingers reassuringly through the hair on the back of Derek’s head.

“And the victims?” Stiles inquired, nervous of the answer.

“Parrish found them. They’re in bad shape, but they’ll be all right. Let’s get you out of there—”

“—Unless you’d like a little more _alone time?”_ Erica interrupted, cackling.

“Thanks, Boyd,” Derek said, ignoring Erica’s teasing. Boyd nodded and disappeared from view, dragging Erica with him.

“Nooo,” Stiles whined. “I wanna stay and make out with you!” He rubbed his nose along the column of Derek’s throat, smiling when he felt the sharp intake of breath.

“I do, too,” Derek said softly. “But I’d prefer doing it somewhere a little more comfortable, and preferably not within five feet of a dead Alpha werewolf.”

Stiles rested his head on Derek’s shoulder. “Yeah, the paperwork is gonna be a nightmare.”

Derek pulled back slightly. “You’re actually going to help me do it for a change?”

“Oh no!” Stiles quickly corrected. “I meant it’s gonna be a nightmare _for you._ I’m not a real cop, remember?”

“How come you only play that card when you don’t want to do paperwork?” Derek asked, feigning frustration.

Stiles smirked back at him. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.” Derek captured Stiles’ laughter in another breath-stealing kiss.

Ten minutes later, the two of them stood outside a dilapidated barn on the outskirts of town that Monroe and her hunters had converted to a holding facility. They held out their wrists to Alan Deaton, BHPD’s medical examiner—and druid—who released the magicked handcuffs with a few whispered phrases. Derek immediately wrapped one of his hands around Stiles’ wrist to take away the soreness. Stiles flushed only a little when Deaton raised an eyebrow at the scene.

Deaton took a purple-tinged piece of linen from his breast pocket and rubbed it along the runes a few times, then placed the fabric in a plastic bag and sealed it. “I can get a signature on the magic used on these cuffs and have a name to you within the next 24 hours.”

“Thank you, Deaton.” Deaton gave a brief smile, then turned and walked away, leaving Stiles holding the handcuffs.

Stiles twirled them around his finger and smirked. “Maybe we should hold onto these?”

Derek closed his eyes and took a long, slow inhale. “The Captain will probably use them to lock me to my desk since I left the station without checking in.”

“Well, it’s a good thing that Boyd and Erica are both able to track our scents, then.”

“And that Monroe was too stupid to use her witch to mask them.”

“A million things could have gone wrong today. We got awfully lucky,” Derek admitted, looking around at the barn and the multiple police vehicles and ambulances, tending to the wounded and cataloguing evidence.

Stiles stepped into Derek’s space, wrapping his arms around the detective’s waist. His heart melted as Derek gave him a shy half-smile. Stiles was _never_ going to get tired of seeing that kind of smile directed at him. Ever. He placed a gentle kiss on Derek’s lips, pulling back only slightly so their foreheads rested together.

“Yeah,” Stiles said with a sigh. “I think we’re _definitely_ getting lucky."  


****************

 

 **Stilinski Returns to Supernatural’s Top Spot  
** _New York Times Best Seller Delivers in Eighth Supernatural Crime Novel_

 **Beacon City, California, May 28 -** M. Stiles Stilinski returns to form with the release of his eighth book from Random House Publishing, _The Alpha’s Watch._ The supernatural crime novel focuses on a string of mysterious werewolf disappearances from fictional small town, Angel Grove. A brooding detective, with his own intimate connections to the werewolf community, becomes entangled in a web of trafficking, rogue hunters, and a mysterious stranger who turns his ordered world upside-down.

Mr. Stilinski’s book release comes after a nearly two-year hiatus in which he disappeared from the author circuit completely, resurfacing as a writer-in-residence at the Beacon City Police Department.  Mr. Stilinski has authored seven supernatural crime novels. His previous novel, _Of Fangs and Claws,_ spent ten weeks atop the _New York Times_ Crime Fiction best seller list. In 2016 he was also honored with the Nom DePlume Society's Tom Straw Award for Mystery Literature.

“The City of Beacon has been proud to stand as host to Mr. Stilinski for the past year,” Beacon City Mayor Scott McCall said in a statement to the press. “He has proved himself a valuable resource for the police department in the areas of supernatural crime and homicide, and the department looks forward to more collaboration with him in the future.”

 _The Alpha’s Watch_ is available in hardback at bookstores nationwide and in e-reader format through most major online retailers.

 

**************

_To my Dad, for the baseball training,_  
_To Scott, for the manly bonding activities,_  
_And to Derek, who gave me a reason to fight._  
_I love you all._

***************

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [Twitter](http://www.twitter.com/im2old4thisotp) and [Tumblr](http://im2old4thisotp.tumblr.com).


End file.
